


The Most Powerful Piece on the Board

by Raliena



Series: Three Continents Watson [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Crossover, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, John "Three Continents" Watson, John-centric, Kink Meme, POV John, The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 19:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4274508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raliena/pseuds/Raliena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After eighteen months of living with Sherlock, John knows how to spot a tail. After two tours in Afghanistan, John knows how to spot a sniper.  Pity that no-one else seems to appreciate that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer - You recognise it, I don't own it.

In some ways John thought it was highly insulting. That someone believed that after a year and a half following a more than slightly crazed Consulting Detective around London and living with him in an enclosed space, he was incapable of spotting a tail.

 

The fact that the Consulting Detective had a highly paranoid, influential and resourceful brother, who coincidently controlled probably all of the Government (if Sherlock was to be believed) only *further* made his tail-spotting skills better.

 

The several abductions didn't hurt either.

 

In other ways, John wasn't surprised. He was quite used to being insulting after eighteen months of living with a socially inept Consulting Detective.

 

The fact that the entire Metropolitan Police Force, and probably most of the country, simply thought of him as Sherlock's shadow meant that the insults weren't simply limited to Sherlock either.

 

What *really* annoyed John was that whoever it was who was having him tailed seemed to ignore the fact that John was an ex-Army Doctor back from two tours in Afghanistan.

 

By God, he may not be much to look at now, but he knew how to fight... He knew how to shoot... And he knew how to spot a sniper... No matter *how* far away the man was.

 

His *life* had depended on those skills. As had those of his *squad* and his *patients*!

 

His record was filled with commendations and glowing reports. Yet no one seemed to bother reading past his role as a Doctor and his discharge papers.

 

No one seemed to equate the loyalty he showed Sherlock with having occurred at any other point in his life.

 

If he had to be honest, John knew he was a bit possessive of people. Harry had once described him as a dog. Highly protective of people he believed that he *belonged* to. Completely platonic in nature. But so long as they cared for *him*, then John would walk into Hell with nothing more than a snowball for ammunition.

 

Right then, Sherlock was someone who cared for him. In his own particularly odd way.

 

Someone was trying to frame Sherlock... And incidentally trying to kill John.

 

Even with his much lower intellect than Sherlock's, it didn't take John long to work out that it was Moriarty behind both the tail and the sniper.

 

That meant Sherlock was in trouble.

 

And probably a few other people too. Moriarty wasn't the type of person to not have a back-up plan.

 

~Well, one thing at a time.~ John thought, ~Take everything one step at a time.~

 

Step One - Deal with the tail.


	2. Chapter 2

John looked casually around him. Yes, he was _exactly_ where he thought he was. Near a shop he never thought he would ever need to enter… And it was conveniently out of all sniper range. Anyone who could fire a rifle down into an alley into a shop _deserved_ to be able to hit him. And considering that the sniper in question was on the rooftops of the building the _other_ side of the street…

 

Well, John wasn’t going to be in much danger. Particularly not where he was going.

 

John slipped up the alleyway and into the shop.

 

His actions were probably shifty and suspicious. But he knew that anyone tailing him would put it down to the nature of the shop.

 

It was a sex shop. Hidden discretely up a dirty alleyway. Clearly only regular customers or those told about it would be able to find the shop that easily.

 

But John knew about it for a completely different reason.

 

            “TC?” The single member of staff looked up from the magazine on the counter to stare at him.

            “Ben.” John nodded in return.

            “You look… Better.” Ben moved around the counter, “Why’d you come here?”

            “I’ve got a tail and a sniper.” John replied bluntly.

            “Came to the right place. What you been up to TC? To get involved in something like that?”

            “I’ll tell you when we’ve taken the tail down.”

            “Absolutely.” Ben grinned wickedly at him.

 

The tail didn’t know what hit him. To be honest, neither did John. And he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know what Ben had handed him as a makeshift weapon.

 

Though it was quite effective. As were the restraints that Ben pulled out. John didn’t even bat an eyelid at them.

 

He’d seen worse.

 

            “Alright TC. What’s going on? Last most of us heard you got injured. Sent home. Started a civilian life. You cut yourself off from us.”

            “I had to. It hurt being around you… Physically _hurt_. I was crippled. A liability. A risk. I had to start anew. I couldn’t let my weakness hurt you. _Any_ of you. I had to be civilian.”

            “That must have hurt.”

            “Like you wouldn’t believe. What is this thing anyway?”

            “You sure you want to know?” John knew that look in the man’s eyes.

            “No.” John shook his head.

            “What do you want to do with him?” Ben nodded at their unconscious prisoner.

            “He’s low rank. Probably doesn’t know much.”

            “What are you involved with TC?”

            “You been watching the news?”

            “Of course.”

            “My flatmate is Sherlock Holmes.”

            “The Genius? Is he real or fake?”

            “Very, very real. As is Moriarty. And this one works for Moriarty.”

            “All the evidence is false then?”

            “Yes. And clearly he’s up to something, if they’re following me and have a sniper aimed at my head.”

            “You fear for Sherlock.”

            “Yes. We were separated. Not a coincidence.”

            “Then, you’re in need of my stock for my _special_ clientele, TC.”

            “I am indeed, Ben. I am indeed.”

            “Well, then come on through.” Ben waved towards the back of the shop.

            “What about him?” John nodded at the bound tail.

            “True.” Ben sighed, “Can’t leave him here. Someone might notice. Flip the sign. I’ll haul him into the back.”

 

John calmly wandered into the back of the shop. He’d never been here before, but he knew he was safe. Ben wasn’t just an old friend. He was an old comrade. A soldier at arms.

 

            “I _still_ don’t get how this place is still running.” John sighed, looking round at all the boxes knowing that what they said on the outside probably wasn’t what was in them, “I mean it’s been, what? Ten years since you told me about it?”

            “It’s the front of shop, TC.” Ben smirked, “Every time the police come to inspect me, they get so embarrassed by the stuff I’ve got out front they never give more than a cursory to the back. Add in that we don’t carry drugs… Well, the dogs never find anything either.”

            “You always were a sharp one, Ben. You ever have anyone approach you, offering protection from the authorities?”

            “Why would I need that? Not even the _crooks_ know about my place. Only us Tommys.”

            “That’s good. I thought so. But I had to check. Sorry, been betrayed a few too many times recently.”

            “What about that sniper?”

            “Rooftop opposite.” John pointed in the right direction, “Knowing Moriarty I’m not the only one with a gun pointed at my head for Sherlock’s sake. I need help, Ben.”

            “Try this one on for size.” Ben tossed him a bulletproof vest.

 

John stripped off his jumper and pulled on the vest, easily tightening the vest. It was a perfect fit. He pulled his gun out from his belt and checked it over.

 

            “You remembered my size.” John shrugged, “Got clips for a Sig?”

            “You haven’t changed that much. Clearly keeping in shape.” Ben smirked, “Here.”

            “You try chasing across London on a regular basis after a madman.” John slipped the extra clips into his pockets.

            “Moriarty?”

            “Sherlock actually. He just seems to forget that public transport exists. Cured my psychosomatic limp in half a day. My tremor in one.”

            “Useful guy.”

            “If we’d had him back in the day, we’d have been disbanded a lot sooner.”

            “Anything else you need?”

            “221A Baker Street.” John declared, “Mrs Hudson. My Landlady. The lure to separate me from Sherlock was that she’d been shot. I need someone to confirm it or protect her if there is a gun aimed at her head.”

            “I’ll sort it, TC.”

            “Get what you can out of him.” John pulled his jumper back on as he nodded at the prisoner, who was starting to stir.

            “Here.” Ben held out another item, “I kept this for you. Knew you’d want it back one day.”

            “Gladstone… I left that behind a long time ago. TC’s my past, Ben.”

            “He’s also your present. I know that look in your eyes. You haven’t looked like that for a while. You were more dead than alive in that hospital bed last time I saw you.”

            “I was virtually recovered. Discharged the next day.”

            “You were still more dead than alive. Look, Gladstone is your true Bulldog. Your faithful companion in times of danger. Give him one last outing?”

            “You always were a charmer, Ben. Alright.” John slipped the item into the holster in the small of the vest’s back.

            “Now, you want to get over there without being seen, right?”

            “Yes. Do you have a way?”

            “Officially there is no back way out of this shop.”

            “Unofficially?” John pressed.

            “Over here.” Ben pushed a box to the side, revealing a trapdoor, “Goes down into the sewer system. Head in the right direction. Second ladder you get to. Go up. The trapdoor that end and the door to the rooftop are both oiled.”

            “Thanks Ben. You’d best keep my phone just in case they’re tracking it. Wouldn’t put it past them. And don’t forget 221A?” John handed over his phone.

            “Of course not, TC.”

 

As John started down the ladder he could hear Ben dialling a number.

 

            “Ben here. Listen, TC needs a favour…”

 

123456789

 

Even if Ben hadn’t told John which ladder to use he would have known. The ladder bore the old mark they’d used all those years ago. He would know the mark anywhere.

 

He climbed up the ladder, pushing open the trapdoor above his head. It opened in what looked like a janitor’s closet. John carefully slipped out. He checked around. The closet was closed and dark. Filled with all janitorial equipment.

 

It was perfectly safe. The door was locked but that wasn’t exactly a problem since it was a lock with an override latch on the inside.

 

John crept out the closet and started up the stairs right by him. He didn’t rush. There was no need really. Unlikely that the sniper would think about coming down. He was in the best position to aim at where he thought John was. In a shop in a dead-end alley.

 

And wearing himself out before a confrontation wasn’t worth it. Better to be prepared.

 

Getting up to the top, John carefully pushed the door open. His Sig heavy in his hands, but not a weight he was uncomfortable with. More of a comfortable weight. One he had carried many times before.

 

He crept towards the sniper, who was still concentrating on the alleyway. John assessed the man’s weaponry. An Accuracy International Arctic Warfare Covert bolt action sniper rifle fitted with a Zeiss telescopic sight. No other visible weapons. But that didn’t mean the sniper was only carrying the rifle.

 

However in John’s favour the sniper wasn’t using a spotter. It was a straight up one on one fight.

 

Each careful step was tested for noise, before John trusted on placing his full weight on it. Better for him to get as close as possible before alerting the sniper. The closer he was the more likely the fight would move more towards hand-to-hand combat. That would reduce the chances of gunshots being involved and thus alerting the police.

 

John was not stupid enough to believe that the Met was clean of moles. He didn’t want Moriarty finding out what he was up to.

 

He used every bit of cover he could, but there would still be seventeen feet he would have to cover in the open.

 

When he was twenty feet away from the sniper, he holstered his gun. He was within the radius he required to gain the upper hand over a gunman. Twenty one feet.

 

His hand instinctively went for the knife hidden in the vest, but he forced his hand away from it. This was no silent assassination of an enemy sniper. This was a valuable intelligence source… If he had judged Moriarty correctly.

 

Fifteen feet, John was tensed like a spring ready to leap, as the sniper pulled out his phone and checked the screen, before laying it down on the parapet next to him.

 

Ten feet, John couldn’t quite believe the arrogance of the sniper. He hadn’t even looked around yet.

 

Five feet, John could practically _smell_ the man. And the sniper hadn’t looked away once.

 

John had to admire the man’s dedication. But deplored his situational awareness and self-preservation skills. If a sniper didn’t have a spotter he was responsible for his own protection.

 

And _yes_ , this wasn’t exactly a war zone. But slacking on routine could be disastrous as it introduced bad habits that took over in dangerous situations.

 

Bloodless battles and bloody drills and all that rot.

 

John took one more step forward. A few more and he’d be able to take the sniper down from a pressure point jab. One an old friend had taught him long ago.

 

However this step… It wasn’t as secure. It felt so, but just as he shifted all his weight onto his foot, something went crunch.

 

John froze. He was too close to the sniper for the man _not_ to have heard the noise.

 

He saw the play of muscles underneath the beige shirt.

 

The sniper was turning towards him.


	3. Chapter 3

No time to think. No time for anything but action.

 

John had never been much of a formal fighter. Any club would have thrown him out after his first fight. If they even let him _finish_ it.

 

He wasn’t even sure that the MMA would let him try.

 

He was all elbows and knees and hard edges. Aiming at joints and nerves and limbs.

 

But it always gave him an edge over normally trained people. At least normally trained people, who hadn’t gotten beyond blue belts.

 

The sniper turned to face him, the rifle falling to the ground. Wasn’t much use as a weapon in the close quarters John had managed to achieve. And he closed the distance even more when the sniper went for a second gun strapped to his chest.

 

One broken wrist and a toss later, the gun was out of play.

 

He went for a knife, but John disabled the arm at the elbow this time.

 

Then it was all fists and feet, knees and elbows.

 

Before long John had the man pinned down on the floor. One knee pushed into the small of the sniper’s back. One hand wrapped firmly around two wrists, not even caring about the amount of pain he was putting the sniper through, with the broken wrist.

 

His other hand was rummaging through the vest pockets looking for the usual equipment that Ben always put in the vests.

 

Just as he expected, he found the zip-ties and took no small pleasure in using them to restrain both the wrists and the ankles.

 

            “My wrist!”

            “Be quiet.” John squeezed the broken wrist slightly, “Could be worse.”

 

He frisked his prisoner for additional weapons. He found none.

 

He hadn’t even studied his prisoner’s face. No need. First get all the important things sorted out, then deal with him.

 

It was just like surgery in a way. Always deal with the most immediate problem. See it all the way through to the end, unless another more immediate problem occurs.

 

Tail. Sniper. Moriarty. And everything in-between he needed to deal with.

 

            “Behave.” John idly tapped the sniper’s shoulder.

 

He rounded up both the gun and the knife, tucking both away. Never knew when they might come in handy. The rifle was slung over his right shoulder.

 

He rolled and gently probed at his left, checking for any further injuries or issues with movement. None immediately presented, but he knew he would be feeling the strain the next day.

 

A quick assessment of the rest of his body confirmed that diagnosis. It also informed him that the sniper was a trained fighter. Skilled. Disciplined. But also far more used to knife fights. Most of the movements had been slashing or stabbing in nature. Someone surprised falling back on what they knew and understood.

 

Weapons secured, John turned back to the sniper.

 

He hauled him back, a good distance away from the ledge and leant him against one of the air-con units.

 

Finally he took in the sniper’s face.

 

            “Colonel Sebastian Moran.” John blinked in surprise.

            “You recognise me.” Moran replied, “Holmes tell you?”

            “I read your autobiography.” John shrugged, “Therapist suggested it as an example of how I could write. I couldn’t put it down.”

            “A fan.” Moran puffed up with pride.

            “Best bloody laugh I’d had since I got shot.” John snorted, “Took two days for the grin to fade from my face. I mean seriously how did you _not_ kill yourself with laughter writing that thing?”

            “It is an autobiography.”

            “No. You want everyone to _think_ it’s an autobiography. It’s a hundred per cent fiction.”

            “What would you know? You’re just a washed up doctor.”

            “Washed up _Army_ Doctor with the rank of Captain.” John countered, getting out Gladstone, “And at least I Served. Which is more than I can say for you.”

            “I am a Retired Colonel.”

            “No.” John shook his head, “No you’re not. You never even enlisted.”

 

Absently John was stroking Gladstone, an old habit he’d picked up from the previous owner all those years ago.

 

            “What are you doing with that?” Moran noticed Gladstone.

            “Your boss likes games, doesn’t he?” John smiled.

            “So? He likes to be entertained. You’re not entertaining.”

            “No. Not to him.” John shrugged, “But _we’re_ going to play a game. It’s called Russian Roulette.”

 

John opened up Gladstone tipping the bullets out into his hand. Five bullets rolled around.

 

He put his hand into his pocket, before removing it, with only one bullet between his finger and thumb. This bullet he put into the cylinder.

 

He spun the cylinder, then twisted the revolver so that it snapped shut. He then pulled the hammer back.

 

            “I ask a question. You don’t answer. I fire.” John smirked, “Maybe you’ve got five chances. Maybe you’ve got one. That’s your choice.”

            “I would die for Jim.”

            “Who said I would _kill_ you?” John laughed, “That’s so _plebeian_ of you. I’m a _Doctor_. I know just where to shoot you so that you’ll live… In excruciating pain, of course. But you’ll live.”

 

John squatted down, to be at eye level with Moran. He saw when Moran saw it in his eyes. The coldness. The ice. The fear was almost palatable.

 

            “You see, I’m not like you, _Colonel_.” John sneered, “I don’t kill unless I have to. I don’t go round shooting man-eating tigers. Who aren’t really. Simply desperate, hungry animals being pushed out by humans and hunted for their skins. I know the human body. I could leave you paralysed forever. Unable to move. Unable to talk. Unable to even control your bladder. But able to hear. Able to feel. How long do you think your boss would care for you after that? A day after the diagnosis was made? An hour? Do you even think he cares about you?”

 

John almost wanted to roll Gladstone’s barrel down Moran’s cheek. But he knew that would be overdone.

 

            “Wh… Wh… What… I’ll never tell you anything.” Moran managed to get out.

            “Yes. You will.” John smirked, “Question one. Who else does your Boss have snipers aimed at?”

            “Go screw yourself.”

 

John carefully aimed and pulled the trigger.


	4. Chapter 4

The gun clicked.

The chamber was empty.

“You were lucky.” John pulled the hammer back again, “Will you be lucky this time? Same question. Who else?”  
“There isn’t even a bullet in there.” Moran countered, “You pulled a slight of hand.”  
“Really?” John calmly uncocked the gun and flipped the cylinder out.

Four holes ran all the way through the cylinder, the fifth started, but was clearly blocked by something. Obviously a bullet, as John removed it.

He put it back in and held up an empty hand to demonstrate that he hadn’t palmed it. The bullet was clearly in the hole. Then he spun the cylinder once more and flipped the revolver closed.

“Shall we start again?” John asked rhetorically, “Who else?”

Suddenly he spun towards the stairs, pulling his Sig as he did so.

“Just me, TC.” Ben leant casually against the doorway, “Wanted to check you were okay.”  
“I’m fine.” John nodded putting the Sig back, “Just trying to get some answers.”  
“Not a-bloody-gain, TC.” Ben sighed, “You got through seven people last time.”  
“And I wouldn’t have had to do that if they’d given me the answers I was after the first time.” John replied, “Besides, they all lived.”  
“Just!” Ben retorted, “None of them walked again. And that ammo’s hard to find.”  
“That’s why you started making it.” John countered, “Anyway I need answers. Who else?”  
“I won’t tell you anything.”

John pulled the trigger again.

Again there was just a click.

“Lucky again.” John smiled, even as he cocked the gun once more, “Oh, and I forgot to introduce you. Ben, this is Colonel Sebastian Jonathan ‘Tiger Jack’ Moran. Moran, this is Big Ben. And that’s all you get.”  
“A Crown Double Star, huh?” Ben raised an eyebrow.  
“Well, he would be.” John laughed, “If he was actually a Colonel. It’s a title he gave himself. I’d say he even got a friend to put the computer files in place. Considering that he got his autobiography published.”  
“Bad?”  
“Best laugh you’ll ever have. He did his research well. But missed a few things. Invented some others. Basically a complete work of fiction. Though I particularly liked the section where he gained his nickname of ‘Tiger Jack’.”  
“Better than yours.” Moran sneered, “TC. Three Continents. So called because you’ve had sex with women on three different continents.”  
“Oh dear Lord,” John put one hand over his eyes, “They got at that file.”  
“I told you that was a good idea.” Ben was leaning on the air-con unit, laughing his head off.  
“It’s embarrassing.” John countered, “Actually, really, really embarrassing. That’s the best investigation into me Moriarty did? A peak at my Army file? And he’s meant to be the best in the business. The Consulting Criminal. All he did was look at a file. That is a complete lack of proper planning.”  
“Piss poor performance, if you ask me.” Ben nodded, “And he’s supposed to be a genius?”  
“Well, I never was that important to him. Calls me Sherlock’s pet. I’m boring to him. Boring. Safe. Stupid. John.”  
“He doesn’t know you at all.” Ben snorted, “I told you that fake file was a good idea.”  
“What?” Moran stared.  
“He’s not called Three Continents because of women.” Ben smirked, “He’s called Three Continents, because that’s the first thing he said. Captain John Watson Commander of the Three Continents Division.”  
“I was sleep deprived. Injured and leading a rag-tag band of soldiers from all over the shop. You’re lucky I didn’t declare I was Major Tom and ask to speak to Ground Control.”  
“True.” Ben grinned, “Anyway, why bother questioning this one? You said the other one was low rank.”  
“And he was.” John replied, “This one isn’t. Moriarty likes playing games. This is Chess.”  
“Chess?” Ben frowned.  
“Moriarty likes symmetry. Moran dislikes taking orders, except from those who have proven themselves smarter than him. He’s the Queen to Moriarty’s King.” John declared.  
“Like you’re the Queen to Sherlock’s King.” Ben made the connection, “So he’ll know.”  
“He knows.” John agreed, “Now, Moran, who else?”  
“I’ll never tell.” Moran snarled.

John pulled the trigger again.

“You’re a very lucky man.” John declared, “But there’s only three chambers left now… So, tell me. Who else?”  
“I’d tell if I were you.” Ben put in, “Haven’t heard that voice for a while. He’s serious. The last time? Those seven I mentioned? Four of them lost both knee caps. The fifth only has the use of one limb, his left arm. The sixth is a quadriplegic. And the seventh only survived because there was a doctor nearby. To be honest I think that’s what broke the eighth. Watching your friends and comrades get shot is one thing. Watching them die, that’s okay. But watching them get shot and the shooter then making sure that they won’t die… That’s a whole ‘nother story. TC won’t kill you, but you’ll never wipe your own backside again.”  
“He’s just a doctor.” Moran tried to dismiss Ben’s comments.  
“An Army Doctor. An Army Doctor who lead twenty prisoners to freedom. Having killed the guards. On his own.” Ben countered, “Then he only got worse. You’re not the first one he’s done this to. And to be honest, I rather doubt that your boss will exactly look after you once you’re no longer of any use to him. You won’t be useful. But you won’t be a threat either. He’ll probably just leave you to rot in whatever hospital you end up in.”  
“He wouldn’t do that.” Moran protested, “He cares.”  
“He’s a psychopath.” John countered, “I mean I’m no psychiatrist. But I did my stint. And I haven’t done a proper PCL-R on him, but I’m guessing he probably scores at least twenty five, which is the cut-off point, in the UK. How many times has he had sex with you? How many others? You’re not important to him. Just a tool. To kill. To scratch an itch. A toy. To play with. To manipulate.”  
“And you’re not the same to Sherlock? I heard about what he did in Dartmoor. Drugged you. Made you hallucinate. See a gigantic, fearsome hound. Just to test a theory… And he wasn’t even right!”  
“TC?” Ben breathed in horror.  
“But you don’t know about the apology.” John fired back, “‘It was an unjustified experiment even for myself... Doubly so for a friend. I really am extremely sorry.’ And he meant it.”  
“He’s a sociopath!” Moran declared.  
“Asperger’s actually.” John countered, “And he’s improving. But we’re getting off topic. Who else? Remember, three more chambers, one bullet.”  
“I… I won’t tell you.” Moran’s voice was quivering slightly now.

John just raised an eyebrow and pulled the trigger.

This time Moran flinched, eyes closing tightly.

Ben and John exchanged a quick grin. They were so very close.

“Lucky again.” John remarked, “Fifty-fifty chance now. Who else?”

Moran stared down the barrel.

“No.” Moran tried, “Don’t do this.”  
“You just have to give me an answer.” John reminded, “It’ll all go away then.”  
“He’ll kill me if I tell.”  
“And I’ll do worse if you don’t.” John pointed out, “Imagine, unable to move. Unable to speak. A living, human doll. You’d be fed all your food. Maybe a gastric tube down your nose. A catheter so you can piss. Because you wouldn’t even have that much control. Someone would wash you and dress you. I’d check you in as a John Doe. None of your money to help you. So those little machines that allow you to communicate? Well, you know how the NHS is these days. Terribly underfunded. ‘Fraid you’d have to go on a list. And who knows how long that would take.”  
“You wouldn’t dare.”  
“You have no idea what I’m capable of. I knew Sherlock for less than forty eight hours. And I killed for him. It’s been eighteen months. Imagine what I’d do now? I’m a military man. I’ve seen mass graves. I’ve seen mass murders. I’ve seen torture to a level that even your boss wouldn’t be able to conceive. I’ve got a lot of experience to draw from. This is the least of what I’m capable of. Who else?”  
“The Landlady. The Detective Inspector.” Moran murmured.  
“Mrs Hudson. And who?” John pressed, cocking the gun.  
“Lestrade.” Moran sank forward slightly in surrender.  
“And where is Lestrade?”  
“The Yard.”  
“Good. Where is your boss?”  
“No.” Moran protested.

John pulled the trigger.

“You’re a very lucky man. But now there’s only one chamber and the bullet left. Where. Is. Your. Boss?”  
“A… A… At St Barts.” Moran was barely audible.  
“What is he planning?”  
“He’s going to destroy Sherlock.”  
“How?”  
“I don’t know.”

John cocked the gun again.


	5. Chapter 5

            “I _swear_ I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me everything. Just that I’d know it when I saw it. And that it’d be the _perfect_ end for Sherlock. Would destroy him completely and utterly. I’m telling you the truth.”

 

John smiled, lowering the gun.

 

            “I believe you.” John then lashed out knocking Moran unconscious.

            “Nicely done.” Ben smirked, “You scared him witless.”

            “Me?” John laughed, “You. All that embellishment? Seven men?”

 

John pulled the trigger again. Again nothing happened.

 

            “You gotta love gunpowderless bullets.” Ben snickered, “Saves the slight of hand tricks.”

            “How many times have we pulled this routine?” John asked.

            “The two of us? About five. You? At least twenty.” Ben shrugged, “Oh, I brought you another present.”

 

Ben held out a bag.

 

            “My kit.” John laughed. He quickly slung it over his shoulder, heedless of his injury.

            “Now you look right, TC.” Ben declared, “Medical kit on your right. Rifle on your back… Only thing that’s wrong is the jumper.”

            “Hey, I _like_ this jumper.” John fired back.

            “Oh come on. Don’t try to pretend. You’d love to go riding through London just like you are on an ATV. Just like you always did.”

            “That was a long time ago.” John looked away.

            “Two years.” Ben corrected, “Not that long at all.”

            “Really? Feels like a lifetime.”

            “Only because you shut yourself away from us. And don’t give me that codswallop again. There’s more to it than that.”

            “The therapist said I needed to learn to deal with civilians. That I was leaning too hard on the military. But I also didn’t want to get in anyone’s way.”

            “That’s so you. But the first part is complete _Bull_! You were _our_ Doctor. _Our_ TC. You’re the guy who brought us home. No matter what.”

            “I was just doing my job.”

            “No, you went A and B the C of D, TC. Even if the Brass didn’t acknowledge it.”

 

They were interrupted by a mobile ringing.

 

            “Ben… Yeah, I’m with him. Hand over?” Ben looked at John, “It’s for you.”

            “Yes?” John asked down the phone.

            “John?” It was Mrs Hudson, “John, this strange man came in here. He attacked the handyman. And the handyman was _armed_. Now he’s just sitting there. I asked him what was going on and he called you! What’s going on, John?”

            “Mrs Hudson, take a deep breath. Hold it. Let it out. Now I need you to ask the man a question. If he gives the right answer then I know what’s going on. Okay?”

            “Yes. What’s the question?”

            “We are not angels. Just say that. If he’s what I think he is, he’ll know what I mean.”

 

John heard Mrs Hudson talk to the stranger.

 

            “He said ‘we are simply men who fell and missed the ground’. What does that mean?”

            “It means,” John smiled, “That he’s a friend. He’s there to protect you. Moriarty is trying to hurt Sherlock, by going through us. I sent a friend to protect you. Hand me over.”

            “TC, old boy.” A refined voice came over the phone, “How are you?”

            “I’m fine, Stone.” John replied, “Thank you for stepping in.”

            “Absolutely alright, old chap, it was my pleasure.”

            “Look after her. She’s a proper lady.”

            “Wouldn’t dream of doing anything else. You take care, TC.”

            “Will do.” John replied.

 

He hung up and handed the phone back to Ben.

 

            “Do you know anyone at the Yard?” John asked, “I need Lestrade safe.”

            “TC… That’s not going to be a problem. You’ve got friends there.”

            “I’m Sherlock’s shadow to the Yard.”

            “Not to all of them.” Ben pressed a speed-dial, “Merlin, Ben here. TC needs a favour. Someone’s trying to kill a Detective Inspector Lestrade. Sniper. Think you can protect him?… Absolutely.”

            “I’ll come over and pick him up.” John declared, “I’ll probably need him for the arrest.”

            “TC will come to you. I’ll be there too.” Ben hung up.

            “You don’t have to.” John protested.

            “TC, rule one… Always have someone watching your back. ‘Sides, I still owe you.”

            “For what? I did my job. I did my duty.”

            “You did much more than that. And you won’t even see it. TC. Sometimes I despair of you. Don’t worry about him.” Ben nodded at Moran, “I’ve got Breas and Scotty looking after the shop. They’ll come pick him up.”

            “Alright then. Tell them to watch his wrists. I broke one. How are we getting to the Yard?” John cleared the rifle and laid it down out of Moran’s sight.

            “Taxi?”

            “I have a thing against taxis at the moment.”

            “Okay, underground.”

            “Be a laugh,” John agreed, “Seeing as how we’re armed. What the hell! Lead on Ben, lead on.”

 

The two of them made their way to the underground, nodding at the two men climbing the stairs to secure Moran.

 

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Lestrade wasn’t quite sure what to think or what to do.

 

About ten minutes ago his office had been invaded by SCO19 officers in full gear. He had been grabbed and manhandled by them into a windowless room deep in the bowels of the Yard.

 

He was currently surrounded by about twenty of them, the door barricaded.

 

He was essentially a prisoner in his own station. There had been no explanation.

 

He could hear people banging on the other side of the door, but unable to shift it.

 

            “What the _hell_ is going on?” Lestrade demanded.

            “We’re protecting you.”

            “From _what_?! The other officers? Are you all mad?” Lestrade was furious.

            “TC will explain everything.”

            “Who’s TC?” Lestrade snarled.

 

It wasn’t that he didn’t _know_ the SCO19 officers, but they had a habit to keep to themselves. Some thought it was elitist. But the truth was they thought differently. And normal officers didn’t have much cause to interact with them. Lestrade barely knew their names and they had a rather annoying habit of using nicknames so he was never sure who was who anyway.

 

            “He’s on his way.”

            “Be good to see him.” One of the other officers remarked, “Haven’t seen TC in _ages_.”

            “Yeah, well, after we got disbanded, he got reassigned.”

            “Who’s TC?” Lestrade repeated.

            “Our friend. And yours.”

            “I don’t _know_ a TC!” Lestrade snapped.

            “Yes, you do. You just don’t know it.”

            “How long do you reckon?”

            “Not sure. Ben’s bringing him.”

            “Think he’ll bring Gladstone?”

            “Wouldn’t be TC if he didn’t?”

            “He doesn’t _have_ Gladstone anymore.”

            “Ben has it.” One looked up from a game of poker, “I managed to get it to him, after TC started ditching everything.”

            “He really did that?” Another piped up from where he was cleaning his gun, “I thought it was just a rumour.”

            “He was trying to cut ties.” One declared from behind a laptop, “Got a damn fool for a psychiatrist. One without clearance for all TC’s file.”

            “Oh gods!” Another muttered, “Please tell me they didn’t ruin him.”

            “I don’t know. All appointments stop eighteen months ago.”

            “Are you hacking confidential medical files again?”

            “Yes.” The officer had the decency to look embarrassed.

            “TC gonna kill you.” The comment was sung by over half of the room.

            “You _know_ he hates you hacking medical files.” The leader stated.

            “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt me.” The response was quick.

            “Don’t you mean, won’t hurt _him_?” Lestrade asked, honestly curious.

            “No.” The whole room declared.

            “TC’s a terror.” One stated, “He’ll make him pay.”

 

The room murmured agreement. Then they fell almost silent again.

 

The game of poker renewed. The gun cleaning resumed. The quiet conversations struck back up.

 

The banging on the door had died away.

 

Lestrade knew that the police outside were simply waiting. Waiting for communication to be established. The vents had been blocked. The door virtually hermetically sealed.

 

The problem with hostage rescue experts was that when _they_ took a hostage, they knew all the tricks.

 

And that was what he was. A hostage. Thought the why completely eluded him. He wished for just a small fraction of Sherlock’s skill. Something to tell him what was going on.

 

Though recent events were making Sherlock out to be a fraud. To be honest Lestrade didn’t know what to think. If you’d asked him before, he’d have told you Sherlock was a genius. A _freak_ , but a genius. _Annoying_ to hell, but a genius.

 

Yet he was now a fraud. A criminal. Someone who had pointed a gun at the head of a man, Lestrade had _thought_ was his friend.

 

Things weren’t making sense. All he could do was worry about what would happen. And hope that Sherlock wouldn’t kill John. Poor John. He was in over his head. Probably always had been. After all what sort of man has his flatmate strapped into a bomb?

 

And now Lestrade was in over his head. Confused. Lost. Nothing made any sense.


	6. Chapter 6

Lestrade had settled himself in the far corner of the room from the door. He wanted to be well out of the way when the shooting started. And he had no doubt that it would.

 

None of the men seemed interested in communicating with the police outside. Though a few were playing on smartphones and one seemed to be having a conversation with someone.

 

Then, suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Two swift knocks and a bang. It was repeated twice.

 

            “We are not angels.” One called out from near the door.

            “I’ve already used that one today.” A familiar voice retorted, “ _As_ you well know, Jaguar.”

            “Oh it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that…” Another stated loudly.

            “And it’s Johnny go away!” The voice outside came back, “But it’s thank you Captain Watson, when the band begins to play.”

            “Yes, it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please.” A third joined in.

            “An’ Johnny ain’t a bleeding fool, you bet that TC sees.” The voice sighed, “You _did_ have to pick the longest one, you fragging ijits!”

            “TC!” The cry was taken up with glee.

 

Lestrade watched as the barricade came down in seconds allowing two men in. The taller of the two he didn’t recognise at all. Though clearly the SCO19 men did. Though they rebuilt the barrier behind him and his friend.

 

The friend caused him to rise to his feet in confusion.

 

            “John?” He whispered.

 

            “TC!” The cries were loud and joyous.

            “Captain on deck!”

            “Will someone shut the Bootneck up?” John sighed, as the men instantly reacted. Each pulling off a perfect salute, “I’m not being piped on board for god’s sake. This isn’t even a bloody ship!”

 

Lestrade watched in confusion as the men clapped John on the back and pulled him into hugs.

 

            “Why didn’t you come see us?” Gremlin asked.

            “You know why, Grem.” John fired back, “No doubt you’ve hacked my file.”

            “Well…” Gremlin started rubbing the back of his neck.

            “Drop and give me twenty.” John pointed at the ground.

 

Much to the room’s laughter, Gremlin obeyed.

 

            “Anyway,” John squatted down next to the man counting out push-ups, “What you doing here? You’re no gunman. Doubt you got hired for the SCO19.”

            “Cyber-crimes.” Gremlin replied without pausing, “But I heard you’d be coming here. I wasn’t going to miss out. So I tagged along.”

            “Typical.” John sighed, as Gremlin got up, “Your skills still up to scratch?”

            “You wound me.” Gremlin staggered back as if shot.

            “Good.” John smirked, “Richard Brook.”

            “The actor involved in the whole Moriarty-slash-Holmes thing?” Gremlin asked.

            “Precisely.” John nodded, “He’s a phoney. A fake. Something Moriarty made up to frame Sherlock with. I need to know how and when. Can you help?”

            “Absolutely.” Gremlin nodded, “Personal interest?”

            “Sherlock’s my flatmate.” John replied, “I know him. This isn’t something he’s capable of. Alan?”

            “Yeah?”

            “Can you help me?”

            “What do you want?”

            “Richard Brook, his life history. From birth to now. I want his school reports, his medical files, his photographs, his manager, his shows, his directors. I want to be able to _watch_ his work. I want his friends…”

            “Basically everything.” Alan interrupted.

            “Exactly.” John smiled, “How long will it take you?”

            “Give me five hours?” Alan asked.

            “Take six,” John replied, “And pull it into a decent presentation.”

            “I get it.” Alan grins, “I’m to prove that it’s false. And Gremlin is to prove _how_ it was done.”

            “You read my mind.” John retorted, a wide grin on his face. One Lestrade hasn’t seen for a while.

            “Not hard.” Alan laughed, “You’re _still_ bloody loyal. What’d he do? This Sherlock… To earn your trust.”

            “I’ll tell you later.” John shook his head, “I’ve got to keep moving. He’s a genius. But he’s also bloody stupid. Good in theory. But he likes to prove his theories. To the point of danger.”

            “Doctor Watson, what the _hell_ is going on here!” Lestrade had had enough of the banter.

            “You’ve been played, Detective Inspector Lestrade.” John replied evenly.

 

Lestrade flinched, John’s voice wasn’t cold. But it wasn’t filled with the warmth he was used to. And John hadn’t called him anything other than Greg for nearly sixteen months.

 

            “Moriarty exists.” John continued, “He exists and he’s playing you and the rest of the Yard.”

            “You can’t know that.” Lestrade countered, “The evidence is undeniable.”

            “Do you honestly think, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” John carried on, “That if Sherlock really _was_ such a criminal mastermind, he would leave such a _mass_ of evidence just lying around?… No. You’ve been played. And I have some evidence towards it.”

            “You have _proof_?” Lestrade stared.

            “A tail and two snipers.” John shrugged, “Three if you count the hitman – I don’t suppose you could exactly call him a sniper seeing as how he was _inside_ the apartment – still currently at 221A Baker Street. I probably ought to send someone to pick him up. I can’t expect Mrs Hudson to have him there indifferently.”

            “You left her alone with a _hitman_?” Lestrade stared in shock, “She’s in _danger_!”

            “No.” John shook his head, “The only thing she’s in danger of, is Lieutenant Stone charming her off her feet. He’s incorrigible. But a bloody good man.”

            “Here, here!” The agreement went up.

            “One of those snipers was aimed at you, Detective Inspector Lestrade.” John declared, “I just handed him over to Donovan. He’ll tell you everything he knows. The tail and the other sniper are in safe hands. As soon as I get five minutes to breathe, I’ll have them brought over.”

            “Are they secure?” One of the SCO19 men asked, before Lestrade could.

            “Breas and Scotty are looking after them.” The man who had come in with John stated firmly.

            “I almost want them to try something.” John sighed, “Though I doubt they will. The tail went down very easily.”

            “You hit him with something from Ben’s shop?” The question was quick.

            “Yes. And no, I _don’t_ know what it was. And I don’t _want_ to know.” John retorted, “The sniper was more work.”

            “We can see.”

 

And Lestrade could. Now that his attention was brought to it. John had clearly been in a fight. His hair was mussed. His clothing disarrayed. His cheek was bruised. No doubt there were other bruises and injuries, but they were well hidden by the baggy clothes… Which seemed to fit better than normal.

 

No, it was just the jumper. It looked more like a regular fit now. Instead of its usual baggy fit. For a moment Lestrade wondered about that, then he dismissed it. It wasn’t important.

 

            “Anyway, we don’t have time.” John sighed, “I _need_ to get to St Barts. That’s where the Kings are playing out their part of the game. Hopefully they’re still in stalemate.”

            “What is going on here?” Lestrade tried again.

            “Moriarty exists.” John declared, “He’s trying to destroy Sherlock. Both of them are at Barts. Any questions?”

            “How do you know all these officers?”

            “They’re old army buds.”

            “Hey!” One of them protested.

            “Okay, military.” John conceded, “Sorry, forgot the Bootnecks, Airy-Fairies and Fish-heads in the room.”

            “Hey!” Several of them this time protested.

            “We don’t have time for this.” John sighed, “I need to get to St Barts. Sherlock’s going to do something stupid. And Moriarty wouldn’t point guns at our heads for no reason.”

            “We can just walk out of here?” Lestrade stared.

            “I asked my friends to ensure your safety, Detective Inspector Lestrade.” John replied, “I confess I did not expect them to take it to this extreme. However what is done is done. We just walk out of here and then Ben can explain it. I need to make sure that Sherlock doesn’t do something dumb. You can either stay and interrogate your sniper, go help round up the tail, the sniper and the hitman, or come with me and yell at Sherlock… And also, hopefully, arrest Moriarty.”

            “Merlin, Jaguar, Hastings, Carrot,” Ben rattled off the names, “There’s also a spotter somewhere around St Barts. Go find him. Rooftop level. He’s set to make a phone call at some point. If he can’t get through to the men… Moriarty’s going to know. Lance, Gawain. Protection detail. TC.”

            “I’ll be fine.” John protested, “I’m not important to Moriarty.”

            “You’re the goddamn White Queen on this playing field!” Ben fired back, “And that makes you pretty damn valuable! I will _not_ have you getting injured on our watch. Yes, the Black Queen is out of play. But even a pawn can take a Queen.”

            “So you’ll assign me a Pair of Knights to keep me out of trouble?” John retorted.

            “If that’s what it takes.” Ben nodded, “You best get moving. I think we’re in the endgame.”

            “Agreed.” John nodded.

 

Before Lestrade could really take it all in, John was at the door, the barricade dismantled by his two ‘knights’. The four going to look for the spotter, only a heartbeat behind.

 

They were out the door before Lestrade had started to move.

 

But as he went to follow, he looked around the room. Gremlin was tapping away on his laptop. Alan was leaning against a wall, phone trapped between his shoulder and head. The rest were still lounging around.

 

They reminded him of nothing less than a pride of lions. Lazing around awaiting for something…

 

No. They were a pack of wolves… Of hounds… Dogs, loyal to one master.

 

And he had just seen their master… Their Queen as they put it.


	7. Chapter 7

Lestrade managed to catch up with John and his Knights.

 

It was odd, not one single member of the Yard attempted to stop John’s progress. Not one person even approached him or touched him.

 

He was being treated with the same sort of reverence usually given to Gods or Royalty.

 

Or the same sort of fear given to Mob Bosses.

 

It made Lestrade wonder just how John managed to get permission to approach the hostage situation.

 

Though maybe he didn’t want to know. Because it looked like Anderson was nursing a black eye; Brown was rubbing his shoulder; and even Bradstreet was treating John as if he were some sort of snake.

 

            “John, wait.” Lestrade managed to catch up to them outside the Yard.

 

He grabbed John’s good arm. He had learnt not to touch the left arm after Donovan had once crime scene. Sherlock’s reaction had quickly gone round the whole Yard. Showed that the ‘Freak’ did actually have emotions.

 

            “Yes, Detective Inspector?” John asked.

            “Why are you being so cold?” Lestrade’s question wasn’t the one he was planning to ask. But it was the first thing that came to his head.

            “To be fair, Detective Inspector,” One of the Knights answered, “You started it.”

            “You called him Doctor Watson.” The other Knight agreed.

            “I’m sorry, John.” Lestrade sighed looking at the face of his friend, “I was mad. I saw scared. I was grabbed out of my office, by a bunch of armed men…”

            “People,” John corrected, “Zinda was among them.”

            “Huh?” Lestrade was thrown by the comment, but carried on, “I wanted to lash out at someone, but was too scared to. I thought they’d gone nuts. Then you walked in. Safe, reliable, plain, simple John.”

 

Lestrade almost bit his tongue as he realized what he’d said. He hadn’t meant to run his mouth like that. But it was the general impression of John around the Yard… Or at least it _had_ been.

 

            “Sherlock’s Shadow.” John continued, “The Freak’s Pet. Holmes’ Fangirl. I’ve heard them all, Lestrade. Those ones and the worse ones. I just never said anything.”

            “We shouldn’t have done that.” Lestrade acknowledged, “I’m sorry. Look, I shouldn’t have lashed out. But you seemed to be the safest target in the room. The only one who _wouldn’t_ kill me.”

            “Seemed?” John pressed lightly.

            “Now I’m starting to think you were the most dangerous person in that room.” Lestrade decided to be honest, “Not because you are stronger or faster or better… But because you spoke and they listened. And I don’t even know why.”

            “He was our Doctor.” One of the Knights came in, “Our Captain.”

            “He brought us home.” The other agreed, “No matter what. He brought us home.”

            “Our strength when we were weak.”

            “No matter what we faced. No matter what it cost him.”

            “I just did my duty.” John shrugged.

            “He always says that.”

            “And it’s never the truth.”

            “Don’t listen to them, Greg.” John murmured, “If you believe what they say I walk on water and call lightening down from the heavens.”

            “Right now?” Lestrade looked at John, “I’m not sure they’re wrong… You walked into that room and turned a group of ex-military men into secondary school kids. You told one to do push-ups. And he did. You asked two to help you. And they agreed. They hadn’t seen you in years. Yet they didn’t even think twice. They’re loyal. To you.”

            “They’re friends.” John shrugged, “That’s what friends do.”

 

Fortunately for Lestrade’s state of mind one of the Knight’s phones rang.

 

            “Lance here.” He answered it, “Really? Okay, we’ll pick up the pace.”

 

He hung up.

 

            “Spotter’s down.” Lance informed them, “And from what Merlin said your mate’s on the roof.”

            “What?” John frowned, “Why would he be there?”

            “Dunno.” Lance shrugged, “But he can’t see too clear. The spotter’s glasses went over the edge and they don’t have anything to help.”

            “What the hell is he doing?” John wondered.

 

He sped up his steps. Lestrade knew that the only reason the four had gotten to St Bart’s first was that they had taken the underground. John had decided to walk.

 

The group got within eyeshot of St Barts, John had been steadily speeding up the entire time, yet never quite breaking into a run or even a jog.

 

Both the Knights and Lestrade though had broken into a jog, just to keep pace.

 

All of them jumped slightly as John’s phone rang. He pulled it out and answered it, slowing down slightly as he did so.

 

            “Hello?” John answered the phone, “Hey, Sherlock, you okay?”

 

Lestrade estimated that they were two minutes’ walk away at most. Most certainly they were within Sherlock’s sight. So either he wasn’t looking or something was up.

 

Lestrade didn’t like it when something was up.

 

            “No, I’m coming in.” John declared, now only a few steps away from the door.

 

Suddenly John stopped and turned around, clearly obeying the instructions he was being given.

 

            “Where?” John pressed further, “Sherlock?”

 

John looked up. And for the first time so did Lestrade. What he saw almost stopped his heart.

 

Sherlock was standing right on the very edge of the rooftop. It was one thing to know that the Consulting Detective was on the roof. But it was another thing completely to realize that he was planning to jump. And it was very clear that that was what he was about to do.

 

            “Oh God.” John had reached the same conclusion, “What’s going on?”

 

Or maybe he hadn’t. Though it was doubtful he’d seen many suicides before.

 

Lestrade broke into a run, abandoning John to his two Knights. He had to stop Sherlock before the man went too far. Before he did something that he couldn’t take back.


	8. Chapter 8

            “No, Sherlock!” John yelled as he saw his friend jump from the building.

 

He started to charge back towards the hospital, hoping against hope that the jump hadn’t been fatal. That maybe… Just maybe Sherlock had managed to survive the odds.

 

Lance and Gawain dashed after him. Lance caught up just before John could see the place where Sherlock had fallen. He then pulled the Doctor into an odd hug. Preventing John from seeing anything.

 

Gawain passed the pair of them, going to check on the body. He was nearly knocked over by a cyclist as he crossed the road.

 

            “Let me go!” John demanded.

            “No.” Lance shook his head, holding tighter, “You don’t need to see this.   You don’t want to see this.”

 

Gawain was back in moments.

 

            “He’s gone.” Gawain murmured, “I’m sorry TC.”

            “No. No. No!” John wriggled free and dashed to where the crowd stood around.

 

He fought his way through the crowd and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist. Desperately seeking a pulse. He sank to his knees as he did so, unconsciously trying to get closer.

 

            “Jesus,” John started to pray, “Please. Sherlock.”

 

The body was turned over, John stared at the blood marred face.

 

            “You shouldn’t see this.” Gawain squeezed John’s right shoulder, “Come on, TC. There’s nothing you can do.”

            “We won the Game.” John murmured, “We won the Game, Sherlock. You didn’t have to do that. I cleared the board of all threats. You weren’t in Checkmate. You weren’t even in _Check_!H There was no need to abdicate. We won. Why did you _do_ that?”

            “John,” Lance knelt down next to him, “Let him go. There’s nothing you can do. Let him go.”

 

Lance carefully squeezed John’s wrist causing him to drop the wrist. Gawain pulled him up and away. Even as John’s eyes never left the body as it was taken away on a stretcher.

 

            “I’m sorry, TC… John. I’m so sorry.” Gawain muttered.

            “He’s not dead. He can’t be dead.” John whispered.

            “Leave it.” Lance put in.

            “Sherlock!” John yelled.

 

But he didn’t fight them as they led him away.

 

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It didn’t feel right to John, for him to be given Sherlock’s eulogy. He had never expected either of them to die. At least not unless he was in a situation where he thought he was going to do.

 

He looked around the congregation in the Church for the Memorial service. Mycroft and Anthea were sitting in the front row. He didn’t think Anthea had looked up from her phone once yet.

 

John wasn’t _quite_ sure why Mycroft was there. Sherlock’s brother had insisted on the funeral and cremation being an entirely family affair. So there was really no need for him to be present at the Memorial.

 

Lestrade sat next to Mrs Hudson. It was probably a black mark on the Detective Inspector’s record, John thought, that he was so publically backing a disgraced man.

 

And Mrs Hudson wasn’t taking the death at all well. Not that John had really been able to help her. He hadn’t even been able to step back into 221B yet.

 

Some of the Homeless Network were there as well. So was Henry Knight and a few other of Sherlock’s clients.

 

And right at the back, almost as if they felt they didn’t belong, were members of his old unit. Ben, Merlin and the others, all in the clothes John always thought of them as wearing, just with a simple black arm band to show that they were mourning. Though none of them had ever met Sherlock. They were simply supporting John.

 

John was just glad that Kitty Riley wasn’t there. She would twist whatever happened to fit what she thought should happen. And she, no doubt, wouldn’t understand what he was about to say.

 

            “The first thing Sherlock ever said to me,” John began, “Was ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’… Not ‘Hello’. Not ‘How are you?’. Not ‘Nice to meet you’. Not ‘Who are you?’. Not ‘I’m Sherlock Holmes’. Just ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’.

 

            “That was Sherlock all over. Forget the niceties. Ignore the unwritten rules of interaction. Just cut straight to the chase. To what was important to him. In that one meeting, he never asked my name. Nearly forgot to give me his. Nearly forgot to tell me where we were meeting the next day.

 

            “However he did manage to inform me of my profession and announce several personal facts that I wasn’t _particularly_ keen on becoming common knowledge. But that was Sherlock. Announcing to the world just what you didn’t want announced. Or sometimes what you didn’t even know.

 

            “Our second conversation ended quite unusually too. He’d just been invited to a crime scene. He acknowledged I was an Army Doctor. Checked that I’d seen enough violence, injuries, deaths and trouble for a lifetime. Then invited me to see some more. My reply? ‘Oh God yes.’

 

            “I was discharged from the Army on medical grounds. Main issues? Intermittent tremor in my left hand and a psychosomatic limp. Psychiatrists had worked on me for six months, both in the field and back home. But they hadn’t cured my limp.

 

            “Forty eight hours and one rather frantic dash across half of London chasing a cab later… And I didn’t need my cane anymore. Didn’t even realize I’d forgotten it.

 

            “And my tremor? Didn’t even last the first crime scene. Never mind my ‘abduction’ by Mycroft… Sherlock managed, in less than two days, to do what three psychiatrists had failed to do in six months.

 

            “Basically that sums him up. Doing what no one else can. At least not without a hell of a lot more time. And patience.

 

            “But he didn’t have patience. He didn’t want to take the time. But he wanted the results. So he found a way. No one would condone them. But they worked. God, did they work.

 

            “He had this annoying habit of talking to me, when I wasn’t there. And then holding me to any decisions that were made in that conversation, despite the fact that I wasn’t there to protest.

 

            “He kept experiments everywhere. And I had to be careful whenever I heard him say: ‘John could you…’. Because it _never_ led to anything I expected.

 

            “But he was the smartest person I ever knew… Ever met. His brain could make leaps of logic, faster than he could explain them to me. And then he’d turn to me with _that_ face. That face that said: ‘We know what happened here’. And then I’d have to tell him that: No, we didn’t. _He_ did. I would appreciate an explanation at some point.

 

            “To know him was to be infuriated by him. And he _was_ infuriating.

 

            “To most, he was heartless. But there was a heart behind the deduction. One you never saw.

 

            “He never bought the milk. Apart from the day, when I had a horrible cold. He didn’t know what type to get… Had deleted the information. So he got one of everything.

 

            “He was so human. In a way no one else but me seemed to see.

 

            “He could never understand Cluedo. Kept insisting that the victim must have committed suicide…

 

            “He tolerated the Bond films, for my sake. He loved watching TV soaps, so he could yell at them. For their banality. But put a Scooby Doo on and he’d watch it from beginning to end.

 

            “We only ever played Scrabble once. Only way I managed to keep pace with his score was to start using Farsi. I still swear he made half his words up.

 

            “We once sat in Buckingham Palace. He was dressed only in a sheet. And we laughed. Then he stole an ashtray. Just to amuse me. I’d been fighting the impulse. He didn’t bother fighting it.

 

            “He wasn’t perfect. I’d be the _last_ to claim that. But he was human. He was real. He was honest, to a point. But he was _never_ a fake.

 

            “I once would have said he was the best civilian friend I had. That is true. But it is also a lie… He was the best _friend_ I ever had. No one else compares.

 

            “And that is the man I remember. The self-sacrificing noble guy, who claimed there was no such thing as a hero. And yet was one. Who said he didn’t have friends. Yet claimed one.

 

            “His most common statement to me was that I saw, but did not observe.

 

            “Well, I see and I observe right now. I see a world that no longer believes.

 

            “Well I believe. I believe in Sherlock Holmes. The Genius. The Man. The Detective. Nothing is more deceptive than an obvious fact.

 

            “I believe. And I will never stop.

 

            “Remember Sherlock. He who died, so that others could live. He laid down his life, for a friend… For me. And I’m not so sure it was worth it.

 

            “Because there will never be another like him. They broke the mould. There’s a thousand of me out there. But there will only ever be one Sherlock.”

 

John stepped down.

 

It wasn’t what he had wanted to say. And it certainly wasn’t what he _needed_ to say. But it was what they needed to _hear_.

 

It hadn’t helped him in any way. He wasn’t healing. And he knew he wouldn’t. Not until he could talk to Sherlock alone.

 

123456789

 

There wasn’t really a wake planned for after the service. Simply people giving their condolences to John.

 

            “I would appreciate it if you would allow me to claim Sherlock’s possessions.” Mycroft informed John, without any preamble.

            “Mycroft, I would leave now, before I make what I did to the Superintendent look like a warm up.” John stated, “You _know_ I have not set foot in 221B since that day. I took nothing of Sherlock’s. As you know. You want his stuff? Go fetch it. I will not.”

 

John turned and walked towards Sherlock’s grave marker. Not that he believed that there was any body there. Or even any cremated remains. But it was like Sherlock’s skull, something to talk to.

 

Mrs Hudson accompanied him and talked for a bit.

 

Then she left him and he was able to say what he needed to say. The words from the heart.

 

            “You … you told me once … that you weren't a hero. Umm… There were times when I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human ... human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so ... there. I was so alone ... and I owe you so much. But please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle , Sherlock, for me, don't be ... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this…”

 

John turned away and walked back towards the church. His military training taking over as he moved. Most of the guests had already left. Lestrade had stayed though, clearly wanting to talk to John privately.

 

            “John,” Lestrade started, “Please, promise me, _promise_ me you won’t go seeking revenge. I don’t want to lose you too.”

            “Greg,” John looked at him, “A man, much smarter than me, once said: ‘before embarking on a journey of revenge, first dig two graves’. I have no intention of dying. And I learnt to forgo revenge a long time ago.”

            “Good. And I’m sorry, John. I should have been quicker. I could have stopped him.”

            “You did what you could.” John replied, “Thank you for trying. Not many would have.”

            “See you around?”

            “Of course.” John agreed.

 

Lestrade walked away. Ben waited until he was out of earshot before approaching and gently squeezing John’s right shoulder.

 

            “So you’re _not_ going after the rest of Moriarty’s men?”

            “That’s not revenge. It’s Justice. It’s finishing what Sherlock started. Are you going to try to talk me out of it?”

            “Hell no, TC. We’re all behind you. You lead. We’ll follow.”

            “I can’t ask you to do that.”

            “Who said you had to ask? Gremlin knows how far the rabbit hole goes. We’ll follow you into hell if need be. And this goes further than you realize.”

            “How much further?”

            “Back to those we thought were gone. The reason they disbanded us.”

            “They’re back?”

            “Not officially. No one’s listening to us… No one in authority anyway. But we’re not alone. Our cousins are coming.”

            “Uncle Sam’s kids? That’s good.”

            “Also the Ladies from Hell and the Tough Bastards from the Hills.”

            “Good. I’m not stopping till there’s not a piece left on Moriarty’s side of the board. Not a rook. Not a knight. Not a bishop. Not a pawn.”

            “Let the Devil shake with fear,” Ben grinned, “The Tommy’s are coming.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when someone drops a particularly juicy prompt near me. Churned this out in 8 days.


End file.
